


if dreams can't come true, then why not pretend?

by TheLillie



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Best Friends, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Major Character Undeath, Multi, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Reunions, Reunited and It Feels So Good, The Unknown (Over the Garden Wall), but tim is alive and is greg's dad!!, canon-typical fear, however this podcast ends i dont think any of our heroes will make it, im always a slut for best friends jontim, surprised that's not an existing tag but 'canon-typical worms' is, tim is alive cus i said so but it's after the finale so everyone else is gone, well. it feels complicated. but overall it's good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26775457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLillie/pseuds/TheLillie
Summary: "Statement of...Tim Stoker. Regarding the fears, and the Archives, and your dream.The Beast is a manifestation of the Lonely. Of that much I’m sure. The fog, the cold, the isolation, the hopelessness...What gets me is the schoolhouse story, though. The weirdness of the animals, the circus, the gorilla suit--that is all so Stranger.And yet it seems that's the one that scared you the least."
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Tim Stoker/Wirt and Gregory's Mother
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. statement given posthumously

**Author's Note:**

> when i first started getting into ao3 i told myself i'd never do the song lyric in all lowercase as the title thing  
> and then i told myself i'd only rarely do it  
> and now effing look at what i've become

[INT. TIM'S STUDY/HOME OFFICE, EARLY NOVEMBER 2026.]

[TAPE CLICKS ON.]

**TIM**

Statement of...Tim Stoker. Regarding the fears, and the Archives, and your dream.

**TIM (STATEMENT)**

First off, don’t forget. Martin and Jon and Sasha and everyone in these tapes are dead. I know you and I know you’re gonna like them, and I know you’re gonna want to meet them. You can’t.

I’m sorry.

So. Wirthlin, we’re letting you listen to the tapes. Originally, when they went public, we planned to let you and Greg each listen when you were eighteen. But this dream, it’s just--it’s familiar. You deserve the full explanation now, if you want it. I’m giving you the condensed version, but if you want to listen to all the tapes, just make sure--

[PAPER RUSTLES]

One, don’t listen to more than three statements back to back. Two, don’t listen at night. Three, if it makes you too scared or uncomfortable or unhappy or--or  _ lingers  _ with you, stop listening  _ immediately.  _ And balance it out with listening to something else. Something funny or uplifting or--whatever.

Those are the rules Lev wrote for herself when she was listening. So there you go. Mother knows best.

There are--were--fourteen entities that embody and thrive off human fear. The Eye: fear of being watched. The Flesh: fear of being eaten, of cannibalism, various...body horror, I suppose. The Dark, the Lonely, self-explanatory; the End: death. The Buried: claustrophobia; the Vast: the opposite. Slaughter, Hunt, Desolation: different flavors of pain and violence. The Corruption is filth, decay and rot and bugs and disease. The Web is the paranoia of being controlled. Spiral is madness and doubt and hallways and getting lost. And the Stranger is--

Well. Strange.

Things pretending to be people. Not knowing what’s real. Circuses. Skins.

Some think they’re gods, some demons, some just...existential forces that can’t really be defined or personified. And for most of history, they were just living it up. Lurking on the sidelines of reality, feeding on all our terror and trauma. Sometimes they got worshippers, people who’d torture and scare each other on purpose. Sometimes these people wanted to turn the whole world into a great big nightmare that’d make these gods a lot more powerful.

One of these people was...Jonah Magnus. ‘Course, when I knew him, he was going as Elias Bouchard. Great evil bastard either way.

Obviously I didn’t know that when I started working for the Magnus Institute. By the time I knew what was going on, I was stuck. I tried to quit, tried to leave, but I couldn’t. Like, physically couldn’t. These entities had me trapped in their great big plan for the end of the world, and there was…

There was only one thing I could do. One thing I thought I could do. I thought I could die.

[HE LAUGHS]

But I did them one better. If you want, skip to MAG 119. My crowning moment. I bombed an apocalypse ritual, and the explosion cost me an arm and a leg and an eye, and I  _ escaped. _

The second the hospital released me, the moment I knew I was  _ able  _ to leave, I got as far as I could and I--I tried to put it all behind me, just for the time being. I came to the States. I met your mum, and you. I tried to get in contact with Martin, tell him that I’d managed to get out, but...I was never able to quite get through. So I decided that was it. My dealings with the Dread Powers were over.

And then MAG 160 happened.

And then MAG 200 happened, and it all went back to normal.

Despite everything, I’d managed to survive all of it. And I was grateful, I was happy. I still couldn’t get another job, I still--am technically an employee of the Magnus Institute. But that’s more of an annoyance than anything else. I’m not really willing to take out my one eye just for the sake of my resume. It all seemed like...a happy ending. I’ve got a safe home. I’ve got a fantastic spouse. I’ve got two amazing, astounding, unbelievable kids.

When we got the call Halloween night that you two were in the hospital, that was...the most--

[A SHUDDERING BREATH]

The most afraid I have ever been. You won’t believe it, when you listen to the rest of the tapes, but  _ that. That  _ was the worst fear I’ve ever felt.

The Beast is a manifestation of the Lonely. Of that much I’m sure. The fog, the cold, the isolation, the hopelessness. Adelaide of the Pasture is the Web. Endicott and his maze of a mansion, that's Spiral. The bell, the spirit--Lorna. That's got to be Flesh.

What gets me is the schoolhouse story. The weirdness of the animals, the circus, the gorilla suit, that is all so Stranger. And yet it seems that's the one that scared you the least. The fact that your girlfriend was in a clown costume when we came to the hospital scared  _ me _ well enough, but that's just my own bad luck. Maybe my epic stunts at the House of Wax did more to weaken the Stranger than I thought. Or maybe it was Jon vaporizing one of them that did it.

In any case. I'm certain the whole ordeal, the whole dream, was the fears. And I'm certain they came after you because of me. Fortunately, it looks like whatever Martin and Jon did to stop them, it made them too weak to do any real damage--just to scare you as much as they could, as revenge on me. Their last 'hurrah!' before they completely shut down.

God, I miss Vine.

Leven thinks she's funny. She was all-- _(he badly affects an American accent)_ 'Have you considered that the human brain is just suuuper wild?' Turns out her initial theory was that you had a near-death experience and those were all just friendly ghosts along your adventure through purgatory.

I think you're going to be okay. I know that they succeeded at least in scaring you, but I think that's all they wanted. I don't know if Greg's just too young to understand or if he's inherited Lev's tendency to totally hide any negative feelings, but he seems alright.

But they did scare you. They almost  _ got _ you. They almost got Greg. They scared the shit out of me. And now...now they've got me recording a statement. Heh.

This has to be the last thing they want. They have to be gone now.

And if they aren't--

[HE INHALES DEEPLY. HE EXHALES LOUDLY, BUT STEADILY.]

Just be careful.

And, uh, don't tell your mum how much I swore in this.

Yeah. Statement ends.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]


	2. statement given live

In his dream he's at the hospital again, bursting through the doors and sprinting for his son. Sons. All the corridors look the same, all the doors look the same. He tries to keep a hold on Leven's hand, but she's running too far ahead of him. His fingers strain and squeeze and hurt, his arm twists and bends.

He cries for her to slow down. His prosthetic leg pierces and aches. The hallway's getting narrower. She bounces on her heel and whirls to look at him and her face--

\--it's Sasha--it's not Sasha--it's Sasha--it's not Sasha--

He tears his eyes away from her, can't look at her, can't see her. He looks behind himself instead.

He's being followed. He's being watched.

"Jon?" he breathes.

"Mr. Stoker!"

The door is open. A little girl with a brown face painted blanche, her polka-dot suit, her wide grin, her accent, Mist _er_ Stok _er_ \--

Her grin widens and she blinks her plastic eyes and her red ringmaster’s coat towers over him and her voice pitches calliope-high. "Mistah Stokah!"

Call _ i _ ope, calli _ o _ pe--

There's a hand on his arm and a "Sweetheart, it's alright" and it's Sasha not Sasha Leven not Leven  _ not _ Leven  _ not _ Sasha--

He roars and shoves her away, shoves them both away, throws a punch, won't goddamn dare let her take anything else from him. His son, his  _ sons-- _

He sees them. The room is too big, too dark, they're too far away, but he sees them. They lie on identical stark white beds, side by side, still as ice. A man stands between them. Watching him.

"Jon!" he shouts. "Jon!"

He's alone in the empty dark and he runs forward, not for the beds but for the watcher, because he knows what this is. He knows this is a dream. And he knows what the Archivist can do in dreams.

"Jon, tell me you're real!" he screams, his tears flying into the darkness behind him as his feet pound against the floor. "Tell me it's you! Tell me you're really you!"

The watcher blinks. He jolts. He steps back. "Wh--Ti--what--"

"Tell me it's you!"

The watcher pushes back his shoulders in alarm, eyes wide, arms raised defensively. "It's me! Tim, it's--it's me! How the hell did--"

Tim leaps at Jon and throws his arm around him and buries his face in his pockmarked neck. Jon stumbles backward, and has no choice but to return the embrace.

And then he regains his balance, and he does have a choice. He chooses to. He chooses to hold him. He clutches at the back of his shirt and spins him around.

"What's--" Jon catches his breath and grips Tim a little closer. "How are you here?

"I made a statement," Tim laughs. "I didn't think it would work."

"No, but how are you--"

He pulls away, a cautious hand held to Tim's cheek, scar to scar. Tim doesn't have his patch on--the shriveled red tissue once torn and burned is on display, clear and dark where his eye used to be. Jon trails his hand down to Tim's empty left sleeve. He glances down to Tim's feet, one bare and calloused, one light rubber and metal.

Jon, too, looks different from the last time Tim saw him. His hair is grayer and shorn close to his scalp; the shadows under his eyes are darker and his skin is more weathered. Despite that, he doesn't seem to have aged quite as much as Tim has. He looks the same as he must have when the world was set back. The same as he must have when he…

He blinks at him and shakes his head and almost, almost smiles.

"You escaped," Jon says. "You survived. And you--" He furrows his brow. "You came here on purpose? You were--"

"Don't get cocky. It wasn't all for you." Tim keeps his arm around Jon's waist and turns to look back at the beds. The kids still aren't moving, aren't breathing, eyes wide and unblinking and skin cold and gray, but Tim swallows his fear.

"They're alright, in the real world," he says. "They had a close call, but they're okay."

"Who are they?" Jon asks.

Tim scoffs. "What, you can't just Know?"

"It seems you've granted them some of your immunity." Jon squints from Greg to Wirt and back again. "They're not...I mean, they look enough like you. Ar-are they yours?"

"Well, don't be racist. Wirt's birth father was Asian, but was not me." Tim clicks his tongue and pinches his hand around Jon's hip. "I got married in America. He came with, Greg came after."

"How long has it been?"

"Eight years."

He can't see them like that any longer. He pulls his gaze away and focuses on Jon. Pretends the whole rest of the nightmare isn't there.

_ "How _ are you here?" Jon asks again.

Tim smirks. "I told you. I made a statement."

"Y-yes, but--"

"After you and Martin did...whatever you did, broke the Institute, fixed the world, all your tapes were left behind. Georgie found 'em and published them." He shrugs. "While later, people start saying they're still seeing you in their dreams. Eventually these two went and fell into a river and terrified me half to death, so I...decided to talk into a tape recorder about it. Figured you'd appreciate some fresh Tim trauma."

Jon listens in silence and doesn't break eye contact. Again he raises his hand to Tim's face; gently, timidly he brushes his thumb along the sealed-shut eyelid.

"You said you didn't forgive me," Jon murmurs.

Tim's smirk fades.

He slowly pushes his hand into Jon’s short hair and pulls him close. He can feel his own heartbeat, shaky but steady, tapping like a hummingbird against Jon’s ribs. Jon’s heartbeat, unsurprisingly, he can’t feel at all.

“I didn’t,” Tim says. “An-and I don’t. But... _ God.” _

He squeezes him.

“I missed you, Jon,” he chokes out. “I missed you so much, all this time, I-I--” He coughs, then sobs. “I loved you so much for so long and then hated you so much more and then you were _gone_ and I couldn’t--”

Jon breathes, inhales, sputters, “Y--you loved me? Wh--how? When?”

And Tim almost screams a laugh at him.  _ “What, you can’t just Know?” _

His eye opens, and in his periphery he sees the beds.

“I wish  _ this _ wasn’t the price of seeing you again!” he cries, digging his fingers into Jon’s back, clawing at him, desperate. “The Lonely almost ate my children, and all I could think about was hoping, praying I was right, wanting it to be true, wanting it to be  _ them _ because maybe it’d lead me to  _ you--” _

“Tim.”

He falls silent, biting his tongue, biting back tears. Jon pulls back from him, just a bit--just enough to look at him. Their legs and waists stay pressed close together, Tim still holding Jon’s back. Jon’s hands are on Tim’s face again, symmetrical, palm to jaw.

“I think I loved you, too,” he says.

Tim stays silent.

And then he sort-of snorts, deflecting. “Well, good, cus if you didn’t that confession of mine’d be  _ extremely  _ awkward--”

Jon kisses him. He kisses him and his lips are stiff and dry and he’s dead and he’s not real but Tim kisses back. Jon holds his face and Tim can’t stop his hand from roving, up to his shoulderblades, tracing his spine, finding the divot in the small of his back that makes him jump a little and arch closer into him. He’s got his best friend back, and by God, there is nothing gonna stop him from kissing the living daylights out of him.

But then Jon pulls away, a hand over his mouth. “Oh, God, you said you got married. I'm so sorry.”

Tim snorts for real now. "I don't think he'll mind me making out with my dead friend in my dreams."

“He?”

“Nonbinary,” Tim shrugs. “He, she, they--doesn’t matter to ‘em all that much, so I switch it up. I think you’d like him. He’s a good egg.” And then before Jon can respond, Tim jerks back a little, a new realization sparking through his head. “Wait, hang on, ‘Oh God’ yourself--Martin’s got to be somewhere in this dreamscape too, hasn’t he? I should be apologizing to him!”

Jon goes quiet.

Tim’s smile disappears, his heart clenching.

“No,” Jon says. “M-Martin...Martin’s gone.”

Gone.

Of course. What was he expecting?

Because that’s what the Change was all about, wasn’t it? Nobody gets what they deserve, and everything hurts. Nobody deserved to be happy together more than Martin and Jon. And so nothing hurt more than for one to keep on forever, watching, alone, while the other faded away.

Tim pulls Jon back into that tight embrace--not roving anymore, just wrapped secure round his shoulders. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers; and it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it’s all he can say against the choked lump of grief rising in his own throat.

And Jon holds his forehead to Tim’s collarbone, and he doesn’t shake and he doesn’t cry. Maybe he can’t, after all this. But he holds him there.

“How long can you stay?” Jon asks in a murmur, after a long time. He doesn’t lift his eyes.

“Until morning, I guess,” Tim says. “I’ll come back, though, won’t I? The next time I fall asleep.”

“Most likely. I hope so.” Now Jon is the one to squeeze. “Selfishly.”

Tim chuckles and lightly scratches the back of Jon’s head. “Hey. After eight years of this, I think you deserve a little selfishness. Treat yourself.”

Jon hums, content, and Tim feels the vibration of the sound on his skin. He feels his eyelashes flutter.

The watcher fully closes his eyes for the first time in almost a decade; and, proud and sad and scared and grateful, Tim kisses the watcher’s crown.

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter coming SOON I HOPE


End file.
